Glass Poetry Press

Volume Three Issue Two

Sara Henning


Skin deep with the song of thirteen, moon hung low, I was still a virgin, more interested in the girls who were not, their tight jeans, stomach sunk below sharp hipbones as though a bit of their souls were meant to cradle there, girls, symptoms of their beauty, shone effortlessly, was it fathers making fractures of their mother's bodies, or sensibilities of November that began the hunt, longing makes us long past the principle of getting, fashionable to what's missing — could I read their futures from the tealeaves of their broken hearts, beer stolen from neighbor's basement coolers, cigarettes dangling between slim, shaking fingers, where could they situate the blank slate before a boy (which boy) could bruise them, was there redemption in the lease of totem for totem, to grow into the liberty of being left nakedly tyrant, out past curfew, longing for a future that won't martyr them silently, can we make angels of the bodies used up, forget them in good faith, beautiful catastrophes dervishing down, washed up on the beaches, can we pity the watermarks and call them art —